


Cold Coffee and Cold Nights

by lost_soul_of_silver



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: College AU, M/M, Oneshot, Out of Character, Paul is an awkward mess, Strong Language, but i headcanon him that way, coffee shop AU, lots of f-bombs, small suicide reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_soul_of_silver/pseuds/lost_soul_of_silver
Summary: The events of the night keep making 180-degree turns and Paul feels like he's about to have an aneurysm.In which Paul is a barista at Veilstone Coffee Shop and Barry is his least favorite customer.





	Cold Coffee and Cold Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da~! Here's a oneshot I've been working on for the past 10 years!
> 
> I kinda just jumped into writing this without outlining or plotting anything beforehand, which I've never done. So I hope the flow and everything is okay.
> 
> Some of the core ideas of this were inspired by [this Tumblr post.](https://nerds-are-cool.tumblr.com/post/133544218971/if-youre-struggling-for-au-ideas-take)
> 
> Also, I know next to nothing about coffee. I just Googled the sugariest, most caffeinated drinks imaginable and rolled with it. I hope I did the coffee lingo correctly lol
> 
> Anyway, enjoy~

_I don't get paid enough for this bullshit._

Saying Paul hates his job as a barista at Veilstone Coffee Shop is an understatement. _“Hate”_ just isn't a strong enough word to encompass the rage he feels while on the clock.

It isn't just the fact that he isn't a people person to begin with―actually, his hatred for all of humanity managed to intensify after he landed the job.

Ironically, he hates coffee and the fact that he smells like it at all times, the dry scent of coffee beans clinging to his clothes and following him home. It makes him feel as if he never even leaves work. The fake cheerful smile he is forced to wear at all times makes his face muscles ache after an eight-hour shift. His boss makes him wear his shaggy, violet hair tied up in a ponytail under a black baseball cap, prompting customers to call him _“ma’am”_ on the daily―and it's mostly intentional, he can tell. Because, ninety percent of the time, the people “mistaking” him for a woman are regulars.

And the regular customers, he swears, are the bane of his existence.

Especially _this fucking prick_.

The boy on the opposite side of the counter―college age (same as Paul), stupid flippy blond hair, cheeky smile like a little kid’s, always wearing the same orange-and-white-striped hoodie―comes in the shop at least four times a day. The dude _clearly_ has a caffeine addiction, or something.

Fortunately, this will likely be his last visit for the day. The shop closes at eight, two hours from now; the setting sun leaves behind its last traces of orange hues in the evening sky, and the shop is void of customers aside from him and a couple of teenagers lounging in the corner.

“What can I get for you today?” Paul asks, forcing a polite façade. There's almost no point in even asking, he notes to himself, because he always orders―

“One grande latte macchiato, for here,” the blond answers, his voice so matter-of-fact that it makes Paul want to punch him.

He taps in the order on the computer screen, his movements stiff and robotic. “Alright. Total comes to $3.94. Can I get a name for your order?”

Now, this answer he _can't_ predict. This boy, thinking he's some sort of fucking comedian or something, gives a different name with each order. This morning, he was Steve Buscemi. At lunchtime, he was Hannah Montana. Paul holds the tip of the marker to the side of the cup in waiting.

“Batman.”

_Of fucking course._ “Can I get a different name?”

The boy blinks his large, orange eyes. Paul’s a bit surprised by his own refusal as well, but frankly he's had enough of this guy's bullshit and there's no way in hell he's writing “Batman” on a cup and shouting it out upon delivery with a few judgmental high schoolers hanging around only a few feet away.

“What's wrong with _that_ name?” the blond asks, completely serious.

“It's not your actual name.”

“And how do _you_ know that?”

“Because today you were Steve Buscemi and Hannah Montana, yesterday you were Michael Jackson and Cthulhu, and the day before _that_ you were SpongeBob, Jesus, and Prisoner 24601―”

“Jean Valjean,” the guy interjects.

With any less self-control, Paul would have _definitely_ punched him in the throat at this moment. “ _Look_. Unless you've been diagnosed with some sort of multiple personality disorder that makes switching between these alter egos a normal thing for you, I'm not writing ‘Batman’ on your order. Is that clear?”

Paul’s voice comes out harsher and more confrontational than he intends, and the boy stares back in awe. Thank the Lord that his boss had already left for the evening, or else he'd be instantly fired for confronting a loyal customer in this manner. Which wouldn't be a complete tragedy, if he has to be honest, but he has bills to pay and cannot afford to lose this job now.

After a moment, the blond exhales in defeat. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Fantastic. Now, can I get your name?”

The boy leans slightly over the counter and answers in a deep, raspy, Christian Bale-esque voice: “ _I'm Batman_.”

Paul shoots him the darkest, deadliest scowl that he has ever given anyone. The jackass customer flashes back a toothy grin.

The tip of the marker scrawls “Batman” across the side of the cup in sloppy letters.

“You win. Your order will be ready in about five minutes.”

 

* * *

 

The next day arrives, and the blond boy is nowhere to be seen. 

The morning shift flies by rather slowly, merging into the lunch period, then into the quiet evening. Faces come and go in a blur, some familiar, some new―but none of them give him the same gut-wrenching sense of dread as the young, blond, bright-eyed, goofy-grinned boy that must have suddenly dropped off the face of the earth.

And this kind of concerns Paul.

On the one hand, he really doesn't care. If he no longer has to write dumb names on cups or hear that smart-ass, bubbly, scratchy voice say _“one grande latte macchiato”_ several times a day―he can live with that. One less customer to deal with, and it would make his job _so_ much more bearable.

At the same time, though, he feels he may be at fault. After telling off the blond boy the day before, maybe he's too scared to return? Still, if that were the case, Paul would not give a flying fuck.

_But what if he's dead?_ The thought is rather dark, even for Paul. But it's plausible―freak incidents happen all the time in a city like Veilstone.

His heart picks up its pace. If that possibility is true, then his last words to the boy were cold, laced with an underlying hatred.

What a horrible final impression to leave on someone's life…

Just as Paul begins to vow to himself to be a kinder, warmer person to everyone he meets, never knowing if today could be their last, the door swings open with a chime. His head snaps around to witness the blond boy drag himself into the shop and approach the counter.

“Oh great, you're alive,” Paul says aloud, unintentionally. He's unsure if the phrase is meant to be sarcastic, relieved, or some blend of the two. But now that he knows this jackass is alive, he can stop feeling guilty and proudly say _“Fuck that”_ to any ideas of being a better person.

The boy’s half-lidded eyes flutter, and he yawns. “Barely.”

He ambles up to the counter, and Paul can now see that this boy isn't joking―his hair is messier than usual, dark circles border his dull eyes, and his slouched posture gives off the vibe that he'll collapse at any moment.

“One grande latte macchiato, please…” the blond mutters through another yawn.

“Okay…” Paul punches in the order on the computer. “For here or to go?”

“...Here.” It takes the boy a moment to come up with the answer.

“Alright. The total comes to $3.94. Can I get a name for your order?”

“Barry.”

The barista pauses before writing the name on the cup. _Barry White? Barry Benson? Blueberry? What kind of idiotic shit is he going for today?_

“S-sorry, can you repeat that?”

The boy blinks, slowly, groggily. “ _Barry_ . You wanted my actual name before, well, _there ya go, buddy_. I'm too damn tired to come up with a dumb name today. Sorry to disappoint.”

Taken aback by the unusual bitterness in his voice, Paul doesn't question it and writes the name on the styrofoam.

(And he considers it wise to not intentionally misspell it as “Berri” with a cutesy little heart over the “I” to further piss him off, even though intentionally getting names on orders wrong is in his job description.)

(Also, wouldn't that be lowkey flirting…? He doesn't even wanna go there. He already considered becoming a better person because of this guy, and that doesn't sit well with him…)

Barry pays for the drink and goes to take a seat at a table in the corner, and instead of playing on his iPhone like usual, he whips out a laptop from his backpack and begins to furiously type away.

 

* * *

 

“One latte macchiato for Barry,” Paul calls out the order a few minutes later, places the steaming cup on the counter, and hurries away to avoid another angry outburst from the customer.

As he wipes down the counters and coffee machines to appear distracted, he ponders Barry's (knowing his real name feels so surreal, after months of never being told) sudden shift in attitude. His brain jumps to a couple conclusions and connects the dots rather quickly.

Barry seems to be between the ages of 18 and 21, so he most likely attends the local community college a block away from the little coffee shop. It's mid-December, when finals week usually approaches. Which explains the boy’s exhaustion and sudden urge to slave away at his computer.

_Being in college must suck,_ Paul thinks, finding himself to be somewhat grateful that he's working this job instead of stressing over schoolwork.

He dares to shoot a glance over his shoulder at Barry in the corner.

And he finds the latte macchiato still sitting atop the counter, untouched.

_What the everloving fuck._

Paul grabs the cup―the drink is cold now―and marches over to Barry’s table. He tries to make it obvious that he's pissed at having to literally wait on the lazy blond, but his look softens once he approaches.

Barry doesn't even look up; he's slumped over his laptop, dead asleep, fingers still hovering on the keys. His index finger is ever-so-slightly pressing on the F key, prompting the letter to appear in a continuous line on the open Word document.

Judging by the _whole page_ filled with nothing but size twelve, Times New Roman font, lowercase Fs (single-spaced, as well), he's probably been out for a few minutes.

“Yo,” the barista blurts, tapping Barry on the shoulder.

“ _Gah_!” He awakes with a jolt and a loud shout, and Paul almost spills the coffee. Orange eyes blink rapidly as they look up at him, bewildered. “W-wha―?”

“I called out your order several minutes ago, but you dozed off over here,” Paul says. “Your latte’s kinda cold now. Would you like me to make you a new one?”

For some odd reason, he notices his tone shift from annoyed to polite. He _never_ offers to get customers new drinks, no matter the reason; they literally have to demand it from him after ten minutes of bitching about their pointless problems.

_Why am I feeling so nice all of a sudden? Is this because of the guilt I felt earlier after worrying this guy was dead? Dammit, I shouldn't have let those ideas of being a better person come in. Now the demon of kindness is slowly possessing me. Fuck._

“O-oh. _Shit_. Sorry…” Barry sits up straight and rubs his eyes with his hands. “Don't worry ‘bout getting me a new one, man. I actually prefer it cold, to tell ya the truth.”

Paul places the cold coffee into Barry’s open hand, but he can't find it in him to walk away just yet.

“It's okay, I get it. College must be rough.”

“ _God_ , it's the worst. Finals week is gonna be the death of me, especially with all this late work I have to make up before tomorrow morning…” The blond yawns deeply, stretching out his arms. Paul hears his bones crack as he moves. “And on top of that, I have a final lab report due in chemistry tomorrow afternoon, too. Seriously wanna fucking kill myself right now.”

The complete 180 in Barry's attitude leaves Paul feeling somewhat stunned; for five months, he came in the shop acting so cheerful and goofy, orange eyes so bright and full of life. This sleep-deprived, dull-eyed, bitter boy in front of him talking of suicide doesn't even seem like the same person.

“That's…” The barista isn't sure how to respond. “A little drastic, don't you think?”

Barry snickers. “Yeah, duh. It's a _joke_ , dude. Besides, I can't afford to die now. Too broke to afford a funeral, and I need to pass this semester.”

“Oh. That's rough, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Barry sighs deeply, running a hand through his unruly hair. “It'll all be over soon, though. Gotta think on the bright side. _Anyway_ , thanks for the coffee, man. Sorry ‘bout dozing off and all that.” After taking a big gulp of his cold latte, he averts his attention to his laptop again, first deleting the ridiculous amount of Fs he unconsciously typed.

“It's… no problem,” Paul replies hesitantly. He knows he should walk away and return to his work, but his feet feel as if they're rooted to the floor.

He's not sure why, but he doesn't want to stop talking to this boy.

The barista shuffles awkwardly in his place, observing the shop around him in search of an excuse. They're the only two present at the moment, his boss had already left for the evening, and all of his additional work was completed…

There's really no harm in hanging around and talking to him for a while longer, he ultimately decides.

Trying to be nonchalant, Paul digs a rag from the pocket of his apron and moves to the table next to the college student, wiping down its surface.

“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence, “I assume you go to Veilstone Community College? What are you studying?”

“Why do you even wanna know?” The blond doesn't stop typing, or even look up from his screen.

“Just asking. Trying to make small talk, since we're the only ones here.” _He really has an attitude, doesn't he?_ Paul notes, unsure whether to attribute it to the sleep deprivation or just the boy showing his true colors. Either way, he knows he has no room to talk; he isn't the easiest person to get along with himself.

The clacking of Barry's fingers hitting the keys stops. Orange eyes briefly glance up at Paul before returning to the screen once again. “Yeah, that's where I go. I'm just getting my basic courses out of the way while I figure out what the hell I'm gonna do with my life.”

“Hmm. I see.”

“What about you?”

“Huh?” Paul looks up at him, surprised.

Barry looks up to glare at him, which startles the barista again. (However, he now realizes that the boy's look isn't all that intimidating. His face is too childlike and adorable to actuall― _wait what._ _Stop it, brain._ )

“Hey, I'm just tryin’ to make small talk, like you are. I know I'm not good at it, but you can at least play along.” He looks back at his screen, takes in a slow breath, and says in a gentler voice, “Sorry. I'm really tired… What I meant was, do you go to school or anything? I don't think I've seen you around campus at all.”

“O-oh…” Paul clears his throat; he's finished wiping the table, so he stands up straight. “No, I'm not in college. I was a couple years ago, but I dropped out. Just… wasn't my thing. I'm working full-time, trying to figure out my life and make it on my own.”

“Cool.” There's a hint of intrigue in Barry's simple answer, even though he doesn't turn away from his work for a second. “You like workin’ here?”

“ _Fuck_ no.”

Barry makes a sputtering sound―a failed attempt at trying to stifle his laughter. “That bad, huh?”

For a moment, Paul pauses, because his brain won't stop triggering thoughts like _His laugh is so damn cute_. He shakes it off and lets out a strange sound between a scoff and a laugh, playing it cool. (Or trying, at least.) “Yeah. Any service job is shitty, I guess. My boss is a good guy, which makes this job a little more bearable, but the customers make it absolute _hell_.”

“Customers like me?” Barry asks just before yawning.

The barista’s heart abruptly stops. “ _No_ ,” he says in a panic, wanting to spare the boy’s feelings. “Y-you’re just fine, really. I meant, um―” _Shit._

“Dude. Chill.” Barry laughs softly, waving a hand. “I _know_ I'm a pain in the ass when I come here. I try to be.”

A sigh escapes Paul's lips; he doesn't know if it's out of relief or just a breath he's been holding for way too long. “Trust me, you're not as bad as most of the regulars. I put up with worse.” Pause. “Might I ask why you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Giving me a different name for your order, every time you come here.”

Barry stops typing to lean back in his chair. Arms crossed, his eyes roll up to the ceiling, as if the question requires deep thought.

“Well,” he answers after a long minute, “to make you laugh, I guess.”

“...Really?” Butterflies begin going batshit crazy in the pit of Paul's stomach. _Stop it, oh my god._

“Y-yeah. No offense or anything, dude, _buuuut_ when I first came here beginning of the semester, I noticed you suffer from a _serious_ case of RBF.”

“What's RBF?”

Barry hesitates, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. Then, he blurts, “Resting bitch face.”

Paul's brow furrows in confusion, before his lips curl into a smile and the start of a laugh catches in his throat.

“ _Ayyyyy_!” Barry suddenly hollers, clapping his hands and throwing his arms into the air. Paul stiffens in surprise. “There's a _smile_! Finally, I got you to do it, without even trying!”

The barista finds his face getting _extremely_ hot.

One, because Barry's behavior is fucking obnoxious but _so cute_ at the same time and _god he wishes his brain would just shut up about that it's not fucking helping_.

And two, because Barry is so damn happy over successfully making him smile. This young man is practically a stranger to Paul, yet his own happiness is _this_ important to him?

Though kind of weird, the sentiment is flattering and touching.

While Paul screams internally, Barry keeps patting himself on the back. “Took me about four months, but hey, better late than never. Achievement unlocked: made the angry yet cool-looking barista smile! You're welcome, sir, for making your _entire_ day―oh shit, dude, come sit down.”

“What?”

“What d’ya mean, _what_? You look like you're about to faint!” Barry pats the table in front of his laptop, where the empty chair is. “Take a seat. You must be exhausted.”

Letting out a breath of relief―thank god Barry unknowingly saved him from his own embarrassment―Paul pulls back the empty chair and drops down. “Y-yeah, that's for sure.” Awkward pause. Paul's shifty eyes meet Barry's tired orange ones for a moment. “Thanks…”

“No prob, bud. Just take it easy. I won't report ya to the manager or anything.”

They fall silent. Barry gets back to tapping away at his keyboard. Unsure of what to do, or where to look, or what to _say_ , Paul opts for twiddling his thumbs together and observing the dry skin on his hands.

_This is awkward… yet strangely comfortable._

“Ya know,” the blond speaks up suddenly, “I worked at Twinleaf Café during high school, and I know I can't really compare a small-town coffee shop to one in a big city like this, but… I really feel for ya.” He stops typing, staring blankly at his laptop screen. “Your feet really hurt after those long shifts, people treat you like shit every day demanding a service and then don't appreciate it…”

Paul nodded, silently agreeing with every word.

“After a while of working at that place, my face kinda started looking like yours while working. _Or_ , to give ya a better picture―” The index finger of Barry's pale, shaky hand jabs at his own face, indicating his droopy eyes, drained complexion, and frowning lips. “―like _this_.”

Paul can’t help but chuckle. “If you come in tomorrow, _that's_ what my face will look like. I’ve been here since open, staying until close, and I come in to open _tomorrow_ and do it all over again.”

“ _Fuck_. How many hours do you work in a week?”

“Forty, sometimes more. Which I have no clue _why_ I agree to do that since I don't get paid overtime.”

Barry's face twists into a grimace. “ _Holy shit_. How do you even survive? I worked part-time at Twinleaf and it nearly killed me. I guess you're way stronger than I am…”

“No, you were just young at the time. And you had school on top of work, which is stressful. If you worked there now, and you weren't in school, you'd fall into the routine of always working and handle it better. And…”

A soft scoff escapes from Paul's throat after he trails off. He eyes his own hands, nervously wringing them on the table as he speaks. _I'm oversharing. I need to shut up. He doesn't need to know all this._

“...I wouldn't really call myself strong.” He keeps talking anyway. “I couldn't even handle one semester of college. I couldn't even handle high school. I _barely_ passed my classes to graduate.”

Barry shrugs his shoulders. “No shame in that. School isn't for everyone. I'm honestly only in college ‘cause my parents pressured me into it.”

The blond man's nonchalant response makes it feel as if a weight is lifted from Paul's shoulders. He breathes out in relief. “I get that… I only enrolled in the first place because my brother went to university, and I just followed his footsteps.”

“ _Whew_ ,” Barry suddenly puffs, flopping back in his chair. “We're getting really deep into our backstories here. Kinda intense.”

Paul chuckles softly. “This is more surface-level stuff than anything, really.”

“Well, it’s deep for _me_ , at least. I don't usually talk about this stuff with anyone.”

“I… don't really either.”

“Ya know what?” With intense eyes, Barry props one arm on the table and leans. The small table scoots along the floor closer to Paul, lightly bumping his chest. His heart stops momentarily at the direct eye contact and determined body language. “We've been sharing so much with each other tonight, and I don't think you've even told me your name. _That's_ unacceptable!”

“ _Oh_.” Panicked, for some reason he can't discern (aside from his brain pelting him with gay thoughts, which he cannot think about for even a _second_ or he'll just freak out even more), Paul jumps up and throws his hand out for a handshake. “Sorry. I'm Paul, it's been nice―”

His hand bumps the cup of coffee sitting on the table, and it topples over the edge and splatters on Barry's lap.

Paul stops moving. He also stops breathing. All of his thoughts stop, too, aside from the repeated chorus of _“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK―”_

Barry rises to his feet. It is then that Paul notices the size of the stain―it covers the entire front area of Barry’s khakis as well as the hem of his jacket, and it continues to grow as the liquid drips down his thighs.

“I'm _really_ sorry!” the barista shouts. He yanks the rag from his apron and dives to his knees at Barry's feet, dabbing away at the stain. “I didn't mean for that to happen! Don’t worry , I'll―”

He shuts up and freezes as he realizes what he's doing.

He is kneeling on the floor.

Touching another man's crotch… with a rag.

_But still._

Paul's eyes grow wide, and he stares at Barry's crotch for longer than is probably appropriate. He guides his gaze upward, meeting a pair of bulging orange eyes and a pair of lips pressed tightly into a firm line.

The chanting of the word _“FUCK_ ” grows louder in Paul's head, and now includes the desire to drop dead at this very instant.

He shoves the rag into Barry's hand with more force than intended, jumps to his feet, and takes two steps back. “Uh, I'll… let _you_ take care of that. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, man,” the blond says flatly. “Accidents happen.”

He blots away at the liquid on his pants and jacket, and Paul tries _desperately hard_ to not look in his direction as he does so.

_Just when I started feeling comfortable with him, I go and fuck it up like this…_ A sharp, stabbing pain strikes Paul's chest and lingers.

“I can make you a new coffee,” he says hoarsely, looking down at the floor.

“Nah, don't worry about it.” Barry holds out the damp rag. Paul takes it, still avoiding his gaze. “You're about to close, anyway.”

“Y-yeah. It's been nice talking to you. I'm sorry, again.”

“Pshh. It's _fine_.”

_He sounds very nonchalant,_ Paul notes. _There's no way he's that calm with me after a fuck-up like that…_

“But… I agree. Talking with you has been nice. Thanks for taking my mind off things…”

The tone is gentler now. Paul dares to look at Barry from the corner of his eye. His face is soft, though still painted with exhaustion. His right hand is fumbling in his jacket pocket for something.

“So, before I head home, I, uh... I want you to take this.” He pulls out his hand and extends a small piece of paper to Paul, folded in half and with two of the edges frayed, like it was hastily torn from a notebook.

Heart pounding, Paul takes the paper and opens it. Inside, in sloppy, almost childlike handwriting, is Barry's name alongside a phone number.

“What…?” Words to express the strange swirl of confusion and joy and panic within Paul fail to come to him.

“I'm done with finals on Friday,” Barry replies. Paul is now looking him in the face, and it's _Barry_ who’s averting his gaze. Is he being shy all of a sudden? “Then I have winter break for about a month, and I'll most likely be bored, so… if you get a day off, text me or something?”

_Is this even real life?_ The events of the night keep making 180-degree turns and Paul feels like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I'll let you know when I'm free.”

Barry is silent for a moment before meeting Paul’s eyes. His orange eyes, despite their tired appearance, almost blind the barista with their radiance.

“Cool.”

 

* * *

 

_I don't get paid enough for this bullshit,_ Paul thinks as a middle-aged woman rambles off her order to him. And judging by her sharp-edged tone, she’s _definitely_ going to complain about something once she gets her order, despite it being made exactly how she asked. He just knows it.

Like a well-oiled machine, he punches it into the computer, his body feeling as heavy as lead as he moves.

Despite working open to close yesterday, Paul was unable to sleep. The strange encounter with Barry, getting to know him, opening up to him, spilling coffee on him, getting his phone number… It took almost the whole night to wrap his head around it.

And to stress him out further, he can't tell if what he feels for the young man is a strong desire for companionship, or… something else. Sure, Paul doesn't have _many_ friends, but upon meeting those friends for the first time, he never felt the way he did around Barry.

No one else has ever sent butterflies aflutter in his gut, or made his heart hammer against his chest bone, or brought awkward thoughts into his head...

The bitchy lady pays for her order and walks away while Paul is deep in thought. The next customer in line, however, wakes him up immediately.

“Mornin’, cutie,” the familiar college-aged boy with stupid flippy blond hair, a cheeky smile like a little kid’s, and an orange-and-white-striped hoodie says as he approaches.

_Did I hear that right…?_ Paul shakes it off, forcing himself passed the awkward feelings battling inside him. “Hey… You look a lot better this morning. Did you get enough sleep this time?”

Barry nods, mischief in his orange eyes. “Yeah, I did, considering _someone_ spilled my coffee, so I didn't have any caffeine in my system to keep me up all night.”

“Sounds like I did you a favor, then. You're welcome, sir.” Paul pauses, glances over his shoulder, and leans in close to the boy, whispering, “I'll make it up to you. Your order today is on me.”

“You don’t have to―”

“I _want_ to. Arguing with me will get you nowhere and hold up the line, so deal with it.”

The blond's smile stretches into a grin. “Thanks, Paul. I think you already know what I'm gonna order.”

“Yep.” The barista's fingers are already tapping away at the keys. “And can I get a name for your order?”

“Bobby Hill,” comes the snarky reply, without missing a beat.

A smile stretches across Paul's face.


End file.
